


Blood and Regret

by Ormsdottir



Series: The Broken Wings of Freedom [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Original Character(s), Other, POV Alternating, Shingeki no Kyojin: Kuinaki Sentaku | Attack on Titan: No Regrets, Space Marines, Ultramarines - Freeform, Warhammer40K
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ormsdottir/pseuds/Ormsdottir
Summary: Erwin Smith, Sergeant of the 4th Tactical Squad in the 3rd Company of the Ultramarines, leads his men towards the Hive City of Hadur. Their mission: to find new blood able to fit as neophytes for the chapter. Meanwhile, in the Underhive of the City, amongst terrible gangs and brutal clan warfare, a young boy fights for his life and for the survival of those close to his heart...
Series: The Broken Wings of Freedom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773829
Kudos: 2





	Blood and Regret

**Prologue**

**Eyes in the Sky**

The holograms that were projected before him were almost the only light that casted shadow in the tactical deck, but that was no problem. His eyes, almost as blue as his armour, were sharp and able to see even in the darkest of nights. To him, as to his brothers there present, that gloom of green and black was as clear as the noon on Maccrage. Five they were, the _astartes,_ gathered around the projector at the center of the room; all five brave sons of Guilliman. Amongst them, unnoticed, swarmed the serfs and the crew of the corvette, who maintained her in silent duty. Technicians sat in their stations, operating the cogitators with both pragmatic expertise and religious chanting, filling the room with the grey smoke of incense, ever hoping for the Machine Spirits to be happy and willing to feed upon the raw data from the augurs of the ship, a constant effort made so the images that the five warriors were contemplating never flickered.

“All right. What are we gazing upon?” he said, the sergeant.

The green schematics of a planet rotated over the projector, with bright red dots scattered across its curved surface, each one separated from the others by the scaled magnitude of thousands of miles, each one bearing a label.

“This is Lauma Secundus,” said the Brother Zacharias, the one with the big nose. “A barren wasteland, blighted by pollution and irradiated soil. Your standard, smelly Hive World. It holds two hundred Hives, each one with an average of half a billion citizens.”

“Anything of interest for our mission?” asked the golden haired sergeant.

“Indeed, sergeant,” continued the warrior. “All of the cities are impressive in terms of potential neophytes, but this one,” he pushed some buttons, ordering the technicians to communicate his orders to the Machine Spirits; the image rotated and zoomed, and where the planet once was now what looked like a pyramidal tower stood, “this one excels.”

“Its name is Hadur, and it is the most important Hive of the city. It holds the majority of the industrial output of the planet and controls basically all the trade value of the world, serving as the _de facto_ planetary capital. The key of its success is it is position, for it rises over a huge deposit of mineral and metals. They pump them out, they process them, and they make them into all sorts of goods. The thing is, they can only mine them from its base.”

The sergeant rose a thick eyebrow, interested.

“Exactly,” said the Zacharias, anticipating the thoughts of his sergeant, of his brother. “In the other cities, the underhive is like as always: a war zone of street gangs forgotten by the noble that bloat themselves with the hard work of the citizens. But here, whoever controls the underhive, controls the mineral flux. So the aristocrats contact the gangs, making them promises of power and technology in exchange for their aid on the mines. The nobles play their game of regicide, with the gangs as their pawns.”

The sergeant sighted. That was the nature of the Imperium bare and naked. There was no glory, no righteousness, no honour on it. The powerful menials backstabbed one another for a paltry pitch of influence and riches to add to their collections, and those who have nothing pay the price while hoping that their sacrifices and the strenuous work pleased the Emperor, to whom they prayed and thanked for the lives they had. But that was not the vision his Father had in mind, nor the golden future that his Master hoped for Humanity. That was a rotten, bloated carcass, a cruel world, and yet those poor souls still dedicated their hearts to it. They were the true heroes of the Imperium, and their names would vanish onto oblivion, never remembered, for at the eyes of all their existence was no different than a cog on a revered machine.

He wanted to act, he wanted to do something. But he wouldn’t, for as the Chaplain said, the place of an _astartes_ is not that of a ruler, but that of a shield. They were the bulwark against the terror, and they would defend humanity from its enemies for all eternity, no matter into what humanity would become beneath the wall they formed. He sighted again; for he could do no other thing.

“I assume,” he said, “that this specific situation forges the right climate for our purpose.”

“Indeed, my sergeant,” continued the Brother Zacharias . “This… sponsored gang warfare is even more brutal that their equivalent in the other cities. The stakes are higher: those who win, will live relative comfortable lives until the next gang takes their price from their hands and claim it for their own”

“Any potential candidate?” said only the sergeant.

More buttons were pushed, more orders given. The humming of the minds of the Machine Spirits intensified as they chewed on new information, only to vomit it onto the projector in the form of new images. This time, no planet, no over-built city was shown. It was a bird’s-eye image of a pit, where two people were locked in combat, unarmed, and fighting only with their bare hands. One of them was large, the other was not: the little one was not but a dark haired boy. A mere child, no older than twelve, who was brutally assaulting an adult man in a pit crowded by cheering people. There it was again, the depravity of humanity, the cruelty he swore to protect.

“He sure seems capable,” went the apothecary, in his white armour.

“He is, indeed,” answered Zacharias. “The monitoring stations we placed on the planet have been recording his live. He was born on the underhive from a gang sex slave, sired by only the Emperor knows who. He has been alone almost his entire life, and those who… _raised_ him, for a lack of a better word… well, they did not stayed by his side for long. He belongs to no gang, but regularly comes to the territory of the group known as the _Titan’s spawn._ They are brutal, and violent, even for gang standards. They conform one of the most powerful organizations within the underhive and, as stated, value violence very highly and celebrate blood sports. The boy comes, fight and murders men twice as big as him, and in return for the entertainment, the gang pays him with food and other goods. I believe he is really well suited. I mean, my sergeant, he has already succeeded in what is equivalent to some of our trials.”

“I agree, Brother Zacharias,” concurred the sergeant. “Very well, it is settled then.”

He turned to a serf, a woman no taller than his waist.

“Set word to ready the teleportarium chambers. We shall make planetfall,” ordered.

“Yes, my lord,” complied the woman, vanishing from the deck.

“If there is nothing else to discuss,” continued the sergeant, “this meeting is…”

“My lord,” said suddenly one of the technicians, “I ask for forgiveness in the light of my interruption but, there is something you should see…”


End file.
